The Man in the Mirror
by Dizzo
Summary: Dean's novel idea to help the brothers out of a financial crisis gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'finding yourself'. Trouble is, once you've found yourself, what the heck do you do with yourself?
1. Chapter 1

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

My first multi-chapter fic of 2014 - wishing a year of health, wealth and happiness to all my readers!

Dean's novel idea to help the brothers out of a financial crisis gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'finding yourself'. Trouble is, once you've found yourself, what the heck do you do with yourself?

My usual rules apply with this fic; no particular resemblance to canon, rated T for a few naughty words. There may be vague spoilers for season 8 onwards because some of it takes place in and around the 'B' place. I see this as being a kind of humorous,angsty,hurt/comfort with a dash of friendship and happy families and maybe a pinch of cracky madness.

Disclaimer: Looked down the back of the sofa in the closet - nope, don't own them.

xxxxx

Chapter 1

It was 2.36 in the morning when Sam awoke, to the rumble of his cellphone vibrating on the nightstand. Groping blearily through the dark he picked up the phone and fumbled clumsily with the touch screen, eventually answering the call.

"What?" he croaked groggily into the tiny device.

It was 2.37 in the morning when Sam really wished he hadn't woken up ...

xxxxx

_One month ago … _

Sitting slumped at the Batcave's massive dining table, Sam was looking at some mail that Dean had picked up from their local PO Box whilst on a grocery run that morning.

He sighed as he ran long fingers through his increasingly unkempt bangs.

"Okay," snapped Dean, who had settled opposite his clearly preoccupied sibling with his still-booted feet resting on the table's highly polished surface; "out with it. You've been moping around like a eunuch in a whorehouse for the last week; what's wrong?"

Sam took a deep breath, the kind that usually precedes catastrophically bad news, before answering. "Dean, we're flat broke," he announced glumly; "we've barely got a cent to our name."

Swinging his feet down from the table Dean leaned forward with a frown; "whad'y mean? I applied for two credit cards a couple of weeks ago."

Sam waved the mail he had been scanning in front of Dean's bewildered face; "yeah well, apparently your fake IDs are no more convincing than your real one – they've both been refused."

Dean bristled furiously; "Sonofabitch! Why?"

Sam shrugged again; "I guess the credit companies are clamping down – there's a recession going on in case you hadn't noticed."

"Bastards," Dean snorted; "but my baby needs a new tail light."

Sam shook his head; "I need a new coat; you need a new pair of boots; we need to buy more salt, we'll eventually need to buy more food," Sam sighed again; "as far as I know, that twenty bucks you took to the store to buy groceries this morning is everything we had."

"I got change," Dean announced brightly, rummaging in the pocket of his jeans and emptying a handful of coins onto the table; the two of them watched miserably as they rattled and spun into a small pile in the middle of the table.

Sam studied the small jumble of coins; "okay, now we have four bucks sixty to our name."

"We'll go to the bar downtown tonight," Dean suggested, effecting his most reassuring voice; "hustle some pool – hey, they might have a poker game going on."

Sam smiled wearily and shook his head; "they know us now, all the local bars do. That's the problem with having a permanent base; if we want to hustle pool, we've gotta travel further afield, and that means using gas we can't afford to burn."

The brothers fell into a despondent silence.

"I noticed the garage in town was advertising for a cashier," Sam eventually announced; "I'm gonna take a ride over there tomorrow and tell them I'm interested."

"What, like, do a real job?" Dean snorted.

"Yes Dean, a real job that pays real money," Sam replied irritably; "desperate times call for desperate measures."

"What about the hunt?" Dean pleaded; "we can't jus' give it up."

"No, you're right, one of us'll have to keep our hand in," Sam agreed with a nod; "at least until we can get back on our feet, and in that case it's best that it's you – you're the natural hunter, and somehow, I don't think you're cut out for the service industry!"

"This sucks," Dean eventually grumbled.

Sam gave a humourless smile; "sure does."

xxxxx

The following morning, Sam shuffled sleepily into the kitchen after an uncomfortably restless night, to be greeted not by the usual sight of his brother standing in the corner, scratching his ass through saggy sweatpants and brewing coffee, but by a hastily written note on the kitchen table.

_'Gone out, see you later. Don't get a job yet.'_

Standing beside the kitchen counter, Sam held the crumpled scrap of paper reading the words over and over again, as if doing so would somehow change their meaning.

A knot of angry concern began to tighten in the pit of his stomach; what on earth is the reckless ass getting himself into now?

xxxxx

It was late afternoon by the time Dean returned to the Batcave, and his cheerful entrance was halted abruptly by the intimidating sight of two hundred and fifteen pounds of pissed-off brother standing in the doorway, long arms folded across an indignantly huffed chest, together with a bitchface of nobel prize proportions.

"Hey Sa …"

"What the hell crap have you been getting into?" Sam snorted.

Rolling his eyes, Dean sidled round Sam's immovable bulk. fumbling in his jacket pocket, he produced a wad of dollar bills.

"You're welcome," he stated blankly; "there's a thousand here; I counted them twice."

As Sam's eyes widened, his vocabulary narrowed; "a thou … but … wh-how ...?"

His brain gave up the attempt of coherent speech with a sense of totally wasted effort.

Dean waggled the the bills and made a show of fanning himself with them; "it was while I was in the post office pickin' up our mail yesterday," He began; "I …"

"You didn't steal it?" Sam blurted in horror.

Dean stared in grim silence at him; "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that so I don't have to smack you one," he stated flatly.

Sam had the good grace to look ashamed; "I'm sorry," he mumbled sheepishly into his chest.

"As I was sayin'," Dean continued forcefully; "when I was in the Post Office, I saw a notice from some local pharmaceutical company advertising for fit men under forty to undergo clinical trials today, and that they would pay a thousand dollars to anyone who volunteered and was selected for the trial."

"Clinical trials?" Sam parroted, concern beginning to furrow his brow.

"Yeah," Dean shrugged; "so after what you were sayin' yesterday, I figured we could use a thousand bucks, so this morning, I got up at the crack of dawn and went over there so I could be first in line."

"Clinical trials?" Sam repeated absently; "why didn't you tell me?"

Dean sighed, giving a theatrical eye-roll. "Because I knew you'd throw a bitch fit, just like the one you're havin' now," he snorted; "anyhow, I was the first one there, an' they jus' did some tests, and told me I was the ideal candidate – they were only looking for one."

"Tests? What sort of tests?" Sam asked cautiously.

"Oh, they jus' asked me a load of questions about my health," Dean replied nonchalently; "prodded me about for a few minutes, took some blood an' made me pee in a jar," he replied; "nothing major."

Sam could feel his brain beginning to engage again, and with it, began to wither under a heavy sense of doom with every word that Dean said.

"So what was the clinical trial for?"

Dean shrugged again; "I dunno," he snapped; "they said something about using the blood to test some medicine for treating some new crappy organ-melting disease in some godforsaken jungle hell-hole that I've never heard of." He gestured toward the money on the table beside them; "what do I care what they do with it? It's not like I'm using it any more, is it?" He paused for a moment to see if Sam had anything to add to his crashing logic; "and, anyway, if it helps them cure some poor bastard, and gives us some spending power then it's all good, right?"

"Well, I guess so," Sam murmured hesitantly, "but why did they only want young male applicants?" He could see that Dean was beginning to fidget, indicating that his attention span, along with this conversation, was rapidly dwindling.

"They said something about testing it on different uh, demo - um, y'know, uh, dem …" Dean's voice tailed off, seemingly lost for the necessary word.

"Demographic groups?" Sam prompted.

"Yeah," Dean replied impatiently; "that's it, demographic groups. This time they wanted to get blood and stuff from a young guy to test this medicine on," he explained; "then next time I guess they'll ask for a young woman, or an old woman, or maybe a ninety-year-old Chinaman with a wooden leg. Jeeze Sam, I'm not a scientist, I don't know how these things work. I just signed up for the trial to get the cash. Can't we just leave it at that?"

Sam rubbed his forehead, he could feel a headache coming on. "Uh yeah, okay – thanks dude, that money's gonna be a massive help." He hesitated for a moment; "just tell me one thing Dean, and I promise I'll drop the subject," Sam's face grew deathly serious; "they didn't give you any drugs or injections or potions?"

Dean shook his head smartly; "nope," he reassured, "I promise, hunters honour, they didn't give me anything apart from a cup of tea and a cookie after they took the blood."

Sam sighed, slightly reassured that Dean wouldn't be keeling over with rabies or something equally unpleasant in the foreseeable future.

Shimmying past his brother, Dean descended down into the bunker and dropped heavily into the couch, grabbing a copy of Musclecar Weekly on his way down. "Make the coffee, bitch," he snorted; "on the subject of blood, there's way too much of it in my caffeine stream!"

Sam looked down at the money and wished he could be pleased about it. Deep in the little part of his mind that knew every cloud had a crappy lining, a dark shadow of foreboding began to take up residence.

xxxxx

Over the following weeks, much to Dean's disgust, Sam watched his brother like a hawk; scanning him for the slightest signs that something, anything could be wrong.

Every sniffle, every cough, every grumble of Dean's ever-demanding stomach gave Sam palpitations, but eventually even Sam, with his propensity for worrying, couldn't deny the fact that Dean was in great shape. The elder Winchester was robust, fit, and energetic; he was positively radiant with healthful vigour.

Added to that, a spate of profitable nights in various bars a couple of towns along and a successful credit card application which meant that the Winchesters' particularly unique brand of solvency was finally restored, and life was definitely looking up.

So it did come as something of a shock, when, at 2.36 am on this particular morning, a month after Dean's clinical trial, Sam received a call from the local police informing him that they were currently holding Dean, under arrest for public indecency, having run, naked as a jaybird and soaking wet, into an all-night diner whereupon he had helped himself to a large carton of orange juice and a bunch of bananas.

xxxxx

tbc

xxxxx

_**A/N** I'm bringing back my O/C, Tom Matthews for this fic. Tom is a doctor who runs an 'off the books' clinic, looking after hunters. He's an old friend of Bobby Singer, and has been seen previously in my fics, Dry, Hair of the Dog and The Darkest Realm. If you haven't got to know Tom through those fics - here's a little background on him:_

_**Dry:** Tom Matthews was plump, short and had dark brown eyes which spoke a thousand words; Sam liked him and trusted him immediately._

**The Darkest Realm**:** (A conversation between Sam and Bobby)**

_"you should see Tom in there, Bobby, he's amazing. He should have been a hostage negotiator."_

_"Funny you should say that son; he used to be in the police very many years ago; Police Medical Officer, that's how we got to know each other - over a few mysteriously eviscerated cadavers."_

_"Nice," Sam cocked an eyebrow._

_"I managed to keep him in blissful ignorance until one day one of those eviscerated cadavers calmly hopped off the gurney, pinned him against the wall and tried to throttle him."_

_Sam's eyes widened in shock, "what happened?"_

_"I sliced it's head off with a silver machete." _

_"Of course then I had to come clean," Bobby smiled as he remembered telling Tom the whole story of the hunting fraternity and the creatures they hunted._

_"Did he believe you?" Sam asked, curious._

_Bobby shrugged, "he'd just been half-strangled by a three day dead, decomposing corpse with half it's ribcage blown away and it's lungs in a jar the other side of the room. Kinda hard to be shocked by anything after that."_

_Sam managed a brief smile, "fair point!"_

_Bobby continued, "in fact, the thing that shocked Tom the most was that us hunters got no recognition and no support."_

_"Sounds like Tom," smiled Sam._

_"Three years after that, Tom was at a murder scene. Standard robbery; nothing supernatural or anythin', just humans being dicks to each other and he accidentally disturbed one of the bad guys who was hiding in a closet. The guy shot him point blank in the chest."_

_Sam gasped, "crap."_

_"It was bad, real bad" sighed Bobby, "Tom almost died; bullet missed his heart, but tore one of his lungs up bad. He spent months in hospital, an' when he came out, he wasn't ever gonna be fit enough to carry on in the police so they medically retired him. Gave him a real handsome pay-off, and that's what he used to set up his little clinic, just to support guys like us."_

xxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Sam learns that, in the Winchester's world, nothing, even crazy stuff, is ever as simple as it seems.

xxxxx

Chapter 2

Sam stared blearily into his cellphone, gaping stupidly through the darkness of his bedroom. After what seemed like an age, the first vaguely lucid thought that strayed through his addled mind was; 'why do these things always happen to me?'

Ending what was possibly one of the weirdest phone calls he'd ever been involved in on a mumbled promise to head right away to the police station to collect his errant brother, he stood up, stretching, farting and then stumbling over the comforter he had kicked off the bed, almost faceplanting into his wardrobe.

He stormed through the bunker's dark corridors carelessly throwing on some random clothes as he went, until he reached Dean's room and, without a thought for privacy or discretion, flung the door open.

Although the Night Officer had certainly described someone like Dean; 'about six feet tall, stocky, short cropped brown hair', and that the alleged 'Dean' had given Sam's current alias as his next of kin, Sam still had to see for himself that this wasn't just a huge misunderstanding. He inwardly kicked himself for thinking it; of course it wasn't - he could never be that lucky!

Cautiously peering through the open door into Dean's room, he found it empty and his heart sank as he regarded he rumpled, kicked back comforter, sprawled messily across the empty bed.

Quickly grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a T shirt which were slung the over the back of Dean's chair, he headed out into the unwelcoming black chill of the night.

xxxxx

It took less than ten minutes to get to the police station; after all there weren't any other sad assholes on the road at this time of night. On leaving, Sam made a point to call Dean's cell, and had to settle for telling Dean's voicemail that it's owner was a goddamn moron and that he was coming to get him, and kick his stupid, reckless ass all the way back to the bunker.

After a brief chat, Sam was led by a weary Night Officer to the cells. "I gotta say," the man drawled; "he's been a model prisoner; came quietly, no puking, didn't fight or try to talk his way out of it - pretty refreshing compared to the ones we're usually pickin' up at 2 o'clock in the morning."

Sam frowned, suddenly the resemblance to Dean became a little more hazy.

"… we got no idea why he was wet, an' when we asked him where his clothes were," The Officer continued, glancing idly up and down Sam's long frame and seemingly choosing to ignore his inside-out sweatpants and back-to-front T-shirt; "all he could say was that he didn't have any." He paused for a moment, as if lost in thought; "then when we asked him about the stuff he stole, he jus' said he was hungry, like that was a perfectly valid excuse for raiding a diner in full view of the night staff, three truckers and a hobo."

He shrugged; "to be honest, he seems a bit out of it."

Sam nodded patiently; "I'm sorry officer," his mind whirled as he fished for suitable explanations that didn't make him sound like a complete weirdo or the worst brother in the world; "we've been trying to, uh, reduce his medication; I promise this won't happen again."

That heartfelt apology together with appropriate recompense for the items that Dean stole were enough to get all charges dropped and a stray brother released with a friendly warning to 'be careful an' stay outta trouble'.

Waiting while the cell was unlocked, Sam's anger instantly dissipated when his eyes fell on his brother sitting huddled into a corner at the back of the cell, wrapped in a big grey blanket with his still-damp hair sticking out at every point of the compass and a few more besides. He looked suddenly small and lost and even vaguely scared.

Sam calmly placed the clothes on the bench beside Dean, "c'mon dude, put these on." He noticed Dean nod obediently as he turned his back to give him privacy to dress. "When we get back, you're gonna tell me exactly what happened here, Dean," he warned as he heard the blanket drop to the ground behind him. He didn't hear Dean's hesitant nod of response.

xxxxx

During an uncomfortably silent drive back from the Police Station, Sam sat stewing behind the wheel, his head a whirl of thoughts. Beside him Dean sat blank faced, staring meekly through the windscreen, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap.

A quiet Dean was never a good sign. Sam knew that his brother only had two volume settings; loud or smartass. Even when he was asleep, he was never quiet. This silent, remorseful, even timid, figure sitting beside him in the Impala was either scheming, sulking, scared or sick or, worse still, a combination of any or all of them. The fact that he never asked to drive, not even once, only added to Sam's growing list of concerns.

Thankfully, Sam didn't have too much time to mull over his worries as the Impala pulled smoothly to a halt beside the bunker after only a few minutes and he stiffly climbed out, shuddering as his weary body was once again exposed to the chill night air.

He paused to make sure Dean had managed to get out of the car, and strode down the ramp toward the Winchesters' home, turning to see Dean trailing barefoot behind him. Dean's head was bowed; his face, painted ivory white by the moonlight, still set in that blank expression that was unnerving Sam so much.

He stumbled to a halt beside Sam and stood, waiting patiently as Sam fumbled in his pocket for the key.

As he heard the lock mechanism click open, Sam turned the door handle and gestured behind him, beckoning Dean past him into the bunker's cavernous interior; "c'mon dude," encouraged, schooling his face into a sympathetic smile; "it's cold out here."

As the door swung open, they both stepped forward.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, in Sam's entire life's experience of weird, bizarre or just plain cuckoo, could have prepared him for the sight that met him when the door opened.

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 3

… _Nothing, absolutely nothing, in Sam's entire life's experience of weird, bizarre or just plain cuckoo, could have prepared him for the sight that met him when the door opened …_

xxxxx

Sam's jaw took a rapid trip south as the door swung open and he saw a figure charging up the metal staircase and along the gantry to greet him.

It was Dean.

What the hell?

Spinning round, he glanced behind him to see if the ordeal of the last hour had all just been a very vivid, cold and embarrassing nightmare, but no; there standing placidly behind him was indeed Dean; the very same Dean that he just had released from the police station after his nocturnal adventures, looking bemused and slightly nervous as he hunkered down against the cold into Sam's larger frame.

And there, charging up the stairs in front of him was – well – Dean; this particular version looking sleep-muzzed, concerned and far from placid.

"Sam, where the HELL have you bee … uhhhh?"

Dean stumbled to a shocked halt as he caught sight of his mirror image.

Suddenly, Sam's world seemed to slip into slow motion and he barely had a moment to react before he was barged aside by one furious Dean wrestling a second less furious, more like scared-to-death Dean into an iron headlock and dragging him into the bunker.

xxxxx

The brothers stood and stared at their strange visitor who sat cuffed to a dining chair meekly staring up at them through wide, watery green eyes, bound and gagged in an inescapable combination of silver, iron, and bronze.

He had drunk, without complaint, a glass of (holy) water and barely flinched when Dean threw salt in his face.

Dead man's blood, lambs blood or even his own blood hadn't gleaned the slightest reaction beyond faintly terrified confusion.

Eventually, Dean turned away, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation; "I got nothing," he sighed; "he's not a shifter, a demon, a ghoul, a revenant, a faerie, a skinwalker, a doppelganger, a fetch, or … I don't friggin know what he is!"

"He's probably a martian," yawned Sam, glancing at his watch and reminding himself for maybe the hundredth time that it was only four o'clock in the morning, and way too early for this sort of crap.

"Well if he is a martian, then at least he's a friggin' handsome one then," Dean replied sourly.

Dean scraped a hand through his hair and pulled in a deep breath; "Sam, tell me what happened again," he sighed, rubbing his forehead as if trying to erase the pounding ache that had taken up residence there;" I got up for a pee around half past two and while I was in the bathroom, I heard the Impala pull away."

Sam sighed, trying not to think of the lovely comfortable bed where he had been sleeping soundly barely two hours ago; "Dude, how many times we gotta go through this? I got a call from the police telling me that you'd rocked up soaking wet and bare-ass naked into an all-night diner, and as if that wasn't shocking enough, you'd then proceeded to help yourself to a carton of orange juice and a whole bunch of bananas."

"That's disgusting," Dean replied absently, pausing as he glanced between Sam and his lookalike; "I don' even like bananas."

Sam ignored him as he continued; "I wasn't sure I believed it, so just to check, I looked in your room before I went, and you weren't there."

"I told you," Dean sighed; "I got up to pee - s'not my fault that the bathroom's half a friggin' mile from my room." He paused for a moment, as if in thought before continuing; "I heard you go, an' then I got your freaky message, so I called your cell but you weren't pickin' up!"

Sam gestured toward their bemused guest who was listening to the exchange with cautious interest, head whipping from side to side like a tennis spectator with a nervous tic.

"Dude, I thought I had you standin' next to me," he replied, trying and failing to mask the exasperation in his voice; "I didn't think to check my cell, because 'you' were standing there, in front of me in all your glory. Literally."

"So why was he butt-naked and flashing my goddamn junk for the world to see," Dean snorted, waving a hand in the general direction of their visitor; "an' why the hell was he stealin' juice and bananas?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a disconcertingly familiar voice.

"Hmi-wah-firty."

The Winchesters turned in unison to the motionless figure sitting trapped between them under a metric tonne of metal restraints; "what?" Dean snapped impatiently.

"Hmi-wah-firty," the figure mumbled again round his gag.

Sam wasn't sure if it was the figure's wide, frightened eyes, or the mellow richness of his muffled voice, which was so much like Dean's; but whatever it was, he found himself beginning to take pity on the mysterious stranger, and stepped toward him, reaching out to his gag; "I reckon we're good to take this off now, Dean, don't you think?"

Dean frowned, "Sam …" the warning in his voice was clear.

"Just the gag for now," Sam muttered softly, not really sure who he was trying to reassure.

"Now, what were you trying to say?" he asked quietly, gazing deep into the lookalike's familiar eyes as he removed the gag.

"I was thirsty," the figure replied in a very un-Dean-Like quiet voice.

"Okay," replied Sam non-commitally, "that's why you took the juice?"

There was a faint nod; "and I was hungry."

"Obviously," Sam replied quietly as he looked up at his brother, standing with his arms folded defensively across his chest, making his displeasure at Sam's 'good cop' routine patently clear.

"Can I ask," Sam wheedled gently; "why you were naked?"

"I had no clothes," the figure responded economically; "but now I have these," he added, glancing down at Dean's black T shirt and grey sweat pants, and looking up at Sam with a proud smile.

"Hey," Dean snapped; "why's he wearing my friggin clothes?"

Sam glanced across to him with a scowl; "hello, Dean - naked? Ring any bells?"

Dean huffed irritably; "oh yeah, well … hey, he'd better not be goddamn commando in those," Dean added, wrinkling his nose in disgust; "if he is he can freakin' keep 'em."

Sam rolled his eyes, and turned his attention back to their strange guest. Nothing was making sense. Sam suddenly had two Deans to deal with; that in itself was mind-meltingly terrifying, but when you factor in the possibility that the second Dean could quite possibly be something supernatural, you entered a whole new realm of boggle-eyed crazy.

He was really, REALLY missing his bed.

Crouching down before their strange visitor, Sam sighed; "can you tell me why you were wet? I know it wasn't raining."

"I have just emerged," the figure replied as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

"O-ookay," Sam added, none the wiser; "that's – uh – nice?"

He glanced up at Dean to see him circling his temple with his finger, and chose to ignore him.

"No, it is not nice," the figure replied, showing distinct signs of the nervousness that he had exhibited earlier; "I am wrong, I have faults. They will eliminate me. That is why I ran, because I do not wish for that to happen."

He looked up at Sam and the fear shining in his wide green eyes was heartbreaking to see.

"I want to live."

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

_A/N: (vaguely spoilery for season 7 & 8) Just to reiterate my opening comment, this story is not canon. I am fully aware that Bobby and the Batcave do not inhabit the same timeline on the show, but therein lies the magic of fan fiction ..._

Chapter 4

Bobby smiled as he stood at the window watching the beat-up green SUV that pulled up in his yard, shuddering to a noisy, smoke-engulfed halt.

He really should do this more often. A good weekend off with his old buddy Tom, drinking beer and putting the world to rights like the pair of grumpy old bastards they were; a few John Wayne flicks on the VCR, a roast ham dinner (which Bobby would cook - you never knew where Tom's hands had been) and maybe even a lazy day's fishing over at the creek if the darn rain they've been forecasting on the TV holds off.

Yes, the goddamned supernatural world could go screw itself; for three days Bobby was just gonna be an ordinary Joe.

Bobby was going to relax.

... and then the phone rang.

xxxxx

It was six hours later that Bobby looked out of the window again on hearing the growl of a familiar engine which idled for a moment then shut off outside. He glanced across at Tom with a roll of the eyes and heaved himself out of his chair to pull the door open before the first knock.

"Hey boys, how's it g … uhh?"

The words died on his lips.

Bobby had had a couple of beers - okay, maybe even three, but who was counting? However many it was, though, it surely wasn't enough to have him seeing two Deans?

"Is this the thing you said was easier to show me than to tell me about?" he snorted once his shocked brain had regained the power of coherent speech.

"Uh, yeah, hi Bobby," Sam effected the most shitfaced grin he could manage as the Winchesters plus one stepped over the threshold and past the older man, into his house.

"Hey Tom," Dean raised a hand in a friendly greeting which was echoed by Sam. Between them, the mysterious figure stood, hunched and handcuffed, staring nervously at Tom's shocked gape from under lowered eyelids.

Bobby followed them into the living room, closing the door behind him. He turned to Tom.

"Why do I get the feeling our relaxing weekend just went up in smoke?"

xxxxx

Bobby and Tom sat and listened as Sam recounted their story; all the way back from the phone call, his trip to the police station, his disturbing discovery that he had somehow acquired another brother on the run from someone - or something - who wanted to do him harm, and his catastrophic lack of sleep which - for the record - still wasn't rectified.

The original Dean took up the story from there; "… we've done every test we know, Bobby, so we know he's not a shifter, or a skinwalker, a demon, a revenant or anything else supernatural that we could identify. He doesn't even know what he is himself, except that he's calling himself Dean Winsborough – an' that's the alias that I'm using at the moment."

"Yeah," Sam added; "and when the police called, they said he listed a 'Sam Watson' as his next of kin and that MY alias right now."

"Honestly Bobby," Dean sighed, wearily running a hand over his face; "it's like he just friggin' stepped out of nowhere."

Bobby paced across the room rubbing his beard as he studied the bemused figure sitting huddled between the Winchesters on his couch. Nervous green eyes followed his every move.

"Have ya tried putting him in front of a mirror?" He eventually asked.

Dean nodded; "yeah, he's not a changeling - or a vamp."

Musing silently, Bobby eventually addressed the mysterious visitor directly; "D'ya talk?" he asked.

Dean's lookalike nodded hesitantly.

"What ya gotta say for yourself?"

The strange figure looked down at his cuffed hands, then up at Bobby; "I stole bananas," he mumbled apprehensively; "I was hungry."

Bobby groaned and pinched the bridge of this nose. He could have been sitting on that couch watching 'True Grit' now.

xxxxx

Throughout the exchange, everyone had all but forgotten Tom was there. It was only when he stood and walked across the room that all eyes turned to him.

"Jus' going to my truck," he announced with a quiet smile.

Within moments, he was back, and carrying a small leather case which he placed on Bobby's kitchen table. "Hey Dean," he called, sighing when two identical pairs of green eyes looked up at him. "Uh, I mean, new – uh – second Dean," he shook his head to clear his thoughts; "can you come over here, so I can get a proper look at you?"

The duplicate Dean glanced at Sam and Dean in turn, then back at Bobby, silently asking for permission.

Bobby frowned; "stay with him," he growled towards the brothers.

Tom watched as Sam led their strange companion over to the kitchen table, and pulled out a chair.

"Wanna sit?" he asked, gesturing toward the chair, giving an approving smile as Dean's double timidly did as he was bidden.

Tom crouched before him so he was at eye level. "Okay, uh, Dean; now I just want to check a couple of things. I won't hurt you, understand?"

The lookalike licked his dry lips nervously and nodded, looking back at Sam who gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

He sat stock still as Tom worked deftly, recording his pulse and temperature. He didn't flinch as a penlight was shone into his eyes, and sat patiently, obediently lifting his shirt as Tom pressed a stethoscope to his chest.

Tom quietly thanked his patient as he packed his equipment away, and turned to Bobby and the Winchesters.

"Okay, I can tell you exactly what our friend here is," he explained; "temperature 98.6 degrees, pulse rate is currently almost ninety, and that indicates to me that he's probably nervous, heartbeat is also about ninety."

He paused for a moment to see if anyone grasped the significance of those figures.

"Our friend here is human," he eventually announced.

A stunned silence fell across the room, until Dean spoke.

"H-human, but … how?" he stuttered; "I haven't got a twin – not one that I know of, anyway."

Tom shrugged; "I don't know," he replied; "but given that uh, Dean - er - your, uh, ... him, he's human, how about we all start treating him like one, and not like some lab rat that's here for us to experiment on?" He placed a firm but gentle hand on his patient's shoulder in a gesture of support and stared at the three men opposite them.

"You're right," Sam answered, and turned directly to their visitor; "we're sorry. You ran away from some crappy place and then we treated you just as badly."

A glance passed between Bobby and Dean and they nodded hesitantly, manufacturing cautious smiles for their guest. "Yeah, sorry," Dean added stiffly, clearing his throat as if it took effort to speak; "we deal with some evil sonsofbitches in our line of work - had to be sure that you weren't one of them." He turned to see Sam giving an encouraging smile in his direction; "although, gotta say, it's gonna take some getting used to - gives a whole new meaning to 'talking to myself'." He smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes.

Bobby remained silent, but Sam could tell his initial hostility was easing; he trusted Tom's assessment completely.

"I'll tell you something else I spotted while I was checking him over," Tom added, with a reassuring smile for his patient; "may I?" he asked, taking the hem of the silent figure's T-shirt between his fingertips.

There was a hesitant nod.

He lifted the front of the T shirt. "look," he added, pointing to the upper portion of the figure's chest where Bobby and the Winchesters were stunned to see there was no tattoo.

"This is the main thing that makes me believe this guy ain't supernatural," Tom explained; "those shapeshifters, skinwalkers, therianthropes, whatever, they all take the form of a living thing, but it's all superficial. Inside they're still whatever skanky-ass monster they always were, but outside they are a perfect replica of whatever they're mimicking, down to every blemish, every pore, every last eyelash. They wouldn't miss a feature that prominent."

"This guy is almost like a pure version of you, Dean," Tom began, pausing as he heard a snigger from across the room.

"Sorry," Sam spluttered; "it's just you don't hear the words 'pure' and 'Dean' in the same sentence very often." He snorted as his affronted brother punched him in the arm.

Tom grinned; "whatever, Dean, I don't know why, and I sure don't know how, but it looks to me like you've got some sort of clone."

Dean's eyes widened and his jaw dropped all at the same time; "clone? What, some freakin' douchebag's created a mini-me - OF ME?"

Tom glanced back to Dean's clone, all broad-shouldered, six feet of him sitting in the chair; "well, apart from the fact he's not very mini, but yeah." He paused in thought for a moment; "of course, there's only one way to know for sure, but I've still got a contacts through the police who can analyse a DNA sample for us."

The room fell silent; eventually Sam waved a hand in front of Dean's stunned face, receiving no reaction.

"'Course," Tom continued; "to make a clone of you, someone would have had to get hold of your DNA, and I don't know how the hell they would have managed that. You got any ideas?"

It was then Dean finally found his tongue.

"Oooooooh, crap!"

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 5

_... just a wee, quick update to keep things ticking over ..._

xxxxx

It took Dean an uncomfortably long moment to find his tongue and then blurt out the story of his mysterious clinical trial to Bobby and Tom.

They both listened, nodding non-judgementally as Dean described the nature of the trials and what he had been asked of him, waiting patiently until he stopped speaking, giving him a moment to compose himself.

Blowing out his cheeks, Bobby scratched his head as the enormity of the situation gradually began to dawn; "I guess that'd do it," he sighed.

Dean leapt to his feet, and scraped shaking fingers through his hair, shooting his apparent clone a furious glare before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The four remaining figures in the room glanced nervously at each other as the dust from Dean's hasty exit began to settle. Eventually, Sam moved to follow him, but was stilled by Bobby's hand. "Give him time," he murmured; "I'll go talk to him in a minute, he's less likely to bite my head off than yours," he smiled.

Sam nodded hesitantly casting a worried glance toward the door where Dean had disappeared. He patted the clone on the shoulder, treating him to a reassuring smile.

xxxxx

"I guess we need to give you your own name," Bobby addressed their strange guest, breaking the ice that had settled over the room; "we can't keep callin' you 'hey you!'

The clone looked up; "I'm Dean Winsborough," he replied unsurely.

Bobby shook his head, pointing back toward the closed door; "no, he's Dean Winch - uh - Winsborough," he began; "the least you deserve, kid, is your own identity. We need to find you a name of your own; 'sides, it's gonna be friggin' confusing with two Deans roamin' round the place."

The clone paused in thought, looking up at Sam as if for inspiration. Eventually, he wilted in defeat. "I don't know any names," he whispered; "only Sam and Dean … and Bobby, oh, and Tom."

"Well, there's a job for you two, while I go and visit our original Dean," Bobby announced, gesturing toward Sam and Tom, giving no time for argument as he walked through the door.

xxxxx

Dean was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase when Bobby approached him; "hey, son," he smiled.

"Hey, yourself," Dean grunted without looking up.

Bobby sat down heavily next to Dean; "well this is a thing, ain't no mistake," he began cautiously.

"It's a goddamn 'thing', alright," Dean snorted sourly; "I only did those stupid trials to save Sammy havin' to get a freakin' job," Dean bit his lip to stem the tirade of anger that was threatening to burst forth; "how the hell could this have happened? Who's done this?"

Bobby gave him a moment. "I don't know, son," he replied with a sigh; "this is a new one, even compared to some of the shit I've seen."

Dean's head dropped into his hands; "I can't even look at him Bobby," he murmured; "he's just a walking, talking great goddamn reminder of what these sonsofbitches have done to me."

Bobby gave a sympathetic smile; "d'you know what?" he began; "I get it, I do, really. You've been violated in ways I can't even begin to imagine or understand, and you want to find out how and why, and get some justice." Bobby squeezed Dean's shoulder, imparting a small gesture of unity before continuing; "I want that too, so does Sam and Tom, and I know we're all gonna bust our asses to find these bastards and deal with them, you know that don't you?"

Dean hesitated, his eyes beginning to swim as he regarded the sincerity in Bobby's face.

"Yeah," he whispered, biting his lip; "I know that".

"But there's something else I know," Bobby continued; "that guy, clone, whatever-he-is, in there; he's the result of what they did to you, but he's also as much of a victim in this as you are." He hesitated for moment, allowing his words to sink in; "he's confused, there's people who wanna hurt him by the sounds of it, people that could put him - and us - in danger, and he's scared. We're the only ones he's got to help him."

"He couldn't help being created any more than a child can help being conceived," Bobby stated finally.

Dean stared at Bobby and nodded slowly.

"Don't take it out on him," Bobby pleaded eventually; "take it out on those assholes when we find them by all means; I'll gladly hold 'em down while you punch their lights out, but it ain't his fault – don't damage him any more than he's already been damaged."

Dean remained silent for an uncomfortably long time, long enough that Bobby began to fidget awkwardly, thinking he'd overstepped the mark. He sighed in relief when Dean eventually gave a silent nod. "You're right," he mumbled into his chest, "it's not his fault; I'm not angry at him. I'm jus', well, angry."

Bobby smiled as he recognised the moment when Dean's slumped shoulders squared and he snapped back into himself. "I guess I'd better get used to bein'a twin," he smiled weakly, and followed it up with a pale imitation of his trademark smirk; "I'm still the better lookin' one though."

Bobby rolled his eyes; "yeah, well, git yer perfectly-formed ass back in there, and help that doppelganger of yours find himself a decent name."

xxxxx

Dean and Bobby returned to the room to find Tom and Sam smiling broadly as they gestured toward the clone.

"Dean, I'd like you to meet our new friend … Jimmy."

"Jimmy?" Dean paused in thought for a moment before giving an approving nod; "nice one!"

"Sam helped me to choose a name you would like," Jimmy added eagerly.

Dean smiled; "yeah well, he has his uses sometimes … well, for a snot-nosed, great big little brother that is."

He ducked as Sam flung one of bobby's Books across the room at him.

It was the first time any of them had heard Jimmy laugh.

xxxxx

tbc

_A/N Sam's choice of name was a tribute to Jimmy Page, the great Led Zeppelin guitarist._


	6. Chapter 6

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 6

Bobby, Tom and the Winchesters learn a little of Jimmy's past.

xxxxx

_Later …_

The five men sat crowded around Bobby's kitchen table, marvelling at how the older man had managed to make his and Tom's roast ham go five ways thanks to the addition of half a tonne of baked potatoes and some carrots which had been lurking forgotten at the back of the refrigerator.

Polishing off everything in sight, Jimmy wolfed down his food with the appreciative fervour of a man for whom every flavour was an exciting new experience, barely pausing for breath between enthusiastic mouthfuls.

Sam smiled as he watched Jimmy shovel more potatoes onto his plate and proceeded to inhale them as if they were the only meal he'd ever had; which on reflection, it quite possibly was.

"Well, if there was any doubt he's Dean's clone …" Bobby observed drily.

"Bite me," snorted Dean.

"No thanks," Sam replied with a grin; "but he might," he added with a chuckle, pointing a thumb in Jimmy's direction.

Jimmy paused, looking up at the assembled gathering and smiled a shy hamster-cheeked smile across a face stuffed to bursting with more-or-less anything edible on the table.

"Well, we'll know for sure tomorrow," Tom piped up, "after I've couriered those urine samples you two gave me off to my buddy in the police pathology unit."

"See," Bobby grimaced, waving his loaded fork in Tom's general direction as he addressed the Winchesters; "this is why you shouldn't have medical people to dinner," he grunted; "an' definitely never let 'em cook for ya."

xxxxx

It was after Bobby and Sam had cleared the dishes away and brewed coffee that the conversation turned serious.

"So," Bobby began, turning to Jimmy; "tell us a bit about this place y'came from. The boys said there are people there who wanted to hurt ya?" He kept his voice flat and his face neutral in an attempt to reassure the quietly nodding figure opposite him.

Jimmy took a sip of water and glanced around the table nervously. "First of all I wasn't alive, and then I was," he began hesitantly; "when I opened my eyes for the first time, I was standing, almost floating in a container. It was like a big glass tube and it was full of warm green water." He paused for a moment; "I didn't like it," he added eventually; "it was uncomfortable and cramped. It scared me."

The four men listened attentively; "what, so they had you in a freakin' scuba mask or some crap?" Dean asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Jimmy hesitated, the bemused cant of his head suggesting he had no idea what a scuba mask was.

"No mask," he eventually volunteered.

"What the hell," snapped Dean; "were those assholes trying to drown you?"

Jimmy took the question at its literal face value; "no, I could breathe."

"In the water?" Sam joined the conversation.

Jimmy nodded.

"What are you, a freakin' mermaid – man – whatever?" Dean snorted; "how the hell is that even possible?"

"I don't know squat about creating clones," Tom suddenly interrupted; "but there is a substance, a liquid that has such a high oxygen content, humans can breathe it." He paused in thought for a moment; "it's chemical name is perfluorocarbon, but it's generally known as liquid breathing."

Sam, Dean and Bobby all exchanged confused glances.

"I've never seen it used, its application in medicine is still largely theoretical ," he added; "but it's said that it can be used to deliver medicines and nutrition into the body at the same rate that we process oxygen, that is, almost instantaneously; far quicker than through a drip."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully; "maybe because you were created the way you were, rather than how we were, your creators were using it almost the same way as the amniotic fluid that surrounds a foetus as it's developing; to provide nutrients and medications ..."

His voice tailed off as four sets of eyes fixed on him.

"Just a thought," he shrugged.

"Well, that's kinda super disturbing," Dean croaked, his nose wrinkled in disgust as he pushed his beer bottle away; "Bobby's right about you medical dudes; will you stop with the bodily fluids already?"

Tom grinned at his queasy friend.

"When they drained the tube and brought me out for the first time, it was hard. I was disorientated and cold and so - so frightened. But gradually, I realised it was much easier to breathe air and move around. I liked it so much better, and I told them so," Jimmy sighed; "they didn't seem to care."

"They told me my name was Dean Winsborough, and took me to a room. It was white and shiny and cold. They examined me, in much the same way you did Tom, but for much longer, and not so kindly." He shuddered at the memory; "then they left me in the room and gave me an overall to wear. I was told to sleep. I couldn't sleep; I was too confused; too scared."

"Is that why you ran away, because you were scared?" Tom asked gently.

Jimmy nodded hesitantly.

"I don't know how long I was left to sit in that shiny, white room. They came by every day and gave me nutrient drinks and medicine, and stuck needles in me, but they were never kind to me like you've been." He sighed, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper as he continued; "then one day they came in and told me I would have to go back into the tube. I didn't want to, but they didn't listen. They took my overalls away and as they manhandled me back into the tube, I overheard them say to each other that I wasn't right and would have to be eliminated so that they could start again, and get it right next time." He paused in thought for a moment; "then as the tube began to fill, I realised the water smelt different, bitter. Somehow I knew that if I allowed myself to be immersed this time, I would die. So I fought hard to stop them securing me into the tube; I think I shocked them because I was able to fight my way out. Then I ran."

Dean nodded; "that's why you were wet when Sam found you."

He paused again, staring down into his lap and nodded." I was wrong to run away because they'll look for me. They might find you and eliminate you for helping me."

Dean snorted contemptuously. "I'd like to see the freakin' Frankenstein douchewads try."

Sam smiled as he patted Jimmy on the shoulder; "don't you worry about us; there can't be four people in the world who are better at not being found than us," he reassured.

"Yeah," added Dean; "and trust me, it'll take more than some boffin-headed creepy scientist to ice any of us. We're all stronger and smarter than they'll ever be."

"But why would they want to eliminate you?" Bobby asked; "what the hell do they mean, you're not working? Tom's given you the once over, he says you're as fit and healthy as a goddamn ox."

Jimmy's face dropped. "I don't know for sure but I think it's because I was disobedient."

All four men stared incredulously at their companion. "That's not what we've seen," Sam remarked eventually; "and even if you were, that's no reason to kill you."

Jimmy took a deep breath as if he had to fortify himself for what he was about to say. "While I was left in the white room, they came in and gave me an animal to pet. They said it was my reward to bearing the tests so well."

A faint smile crossed his face as he continued; "the animal was small and white with big pink eyes and long ears. He was soft, and I liked him very much." He glanced at Sam as he continued; "I decided to call him Sam because it was the only name I knew. I had seen it written on my file, it was the name of my next of kin," he smiled up at Sam; "it was you."

Sam suddenly looked like he'd been punched in the gut.

"They gave me some green leaves to feed to Sam, and I held him for a whole day. I liked holding him and he liked being held, it was the first time I had ever experienced a touch that was affectionate, not clinical and hostile. Sam was my friend."

Jimmy fell silent for an uncomfortably long time before continuing.

"Then they came back and told me to kill Sam. They said if I did, I'd get a reward."

His four companions' jaws dropped in unison.

Jimmy shrugged; "I refused. They got angry and told me to kill Sam again and I refused again, so they asked me why I wouldn't kill Sam."

He swallowed nervously as he recounted the difficult conversation; "I told them that Sam was smaller and weaker than me and he hadn't harmed anyone, so I wouldn't kill the animal under any circumstances, and I wouldn't stand by and allow others to kill him either."

"It took three of them to do it," he whispered, staring downcast into his lap; "but they took Sam away from me. I never saw him again."

"They told me that my lack of co-operation was discouraging and that the only one who would suffer as a result was me."

"Shortly after that they took me back to the room with the big tube in it, and that's when I escaped."

Jimmy was met with total silence; four gaping mouths as he told his story. An age passed before anyone spoke and when they did, it was Bobby that broke the silence; "I don't know who these asshats are, or why they're doing what they did, but we're gonna move hell to find out and make sure they pay for what they've done."

"Amen to that," echoed Sam; his voice was quiet, but his jaw was set firm in anger.

"We're just glad you managed to get away," Tom smiled warmly.

"I ran," Jimmy picked up the story; "I ran through corridors and rooms and I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I had to get away from them. A loud alarm was ringing around me, but I crawled into a vent and found my way through the building that way. I eventually emerged on a narrow street."

"I'd never been outside before. I was naked and cold and confused but I knew I had to get away as fast as I could, so I just ran for my life until I couldn't run any longer. Then I had to find food. And help." He looked at Sam with a smile; "yours was the only name I knew, it was the name I remembered seeing on my file when I named my animal, Sam. I didn't know how to find you, but the police officer found you for me. I was glad when he asked you to come."

"Thank you for helping me," he added.

The table went quiet as Jimmy finished speaking and looked down at the crumb-strewn tablecloth.

"Well, it looks like you and me both have been screwed by these assholes," Dean's face was dark with fury; "don't you worry dude, they're going to freakin' pay for this."

Sam nodded; "for a start, I'll call the post office tomorrow, and see if they've got a record of who placed that advert you answered."

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 7

xxxxx

Sam's long overdue rest wasn't disappointing.

Although the brothers' beds in Bobby's spare room were ancient and lumpy and inclined to creak at the most inopportune moments, they were horizontal and warm, and for someone who hadn't slept for near enough 24 hours, they were the most beautiful sight in the world.

It seemed like half a lifetime had passed Sam by when he opened his eyes again … to see Dean sitting on the side of his bed staring right at him.

Sam almost choked on his tongue; "Dean?"

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy? Wha … uh?"

"I'm Jimmy."

Sam yawned as his bleary eyes scanned the same tousled morning-thatch of hair that he saw every morning, the sleep-heavy eyelids weighed down by the same ridiculously thick, dark lashes which he was under threat of death never to mention, and the same long, heavily muscled arms, which looked comically willowy, hidden down to the elbows in Sam's giant navy-blue T shirt.

As wakefulness washed over him, however, he could see there was something in the way that the figure beside him held himself. Cautious, shy, and almost apologetic, he took up a lot less space than Dean's larger-than-life presence. Jimmy may have been Dean's mirror image but in mannerisms, he couldn't be more different.

"Where's Dean?" Sam croaked, knuckling his tired eyes; "he said he was going to turn in soon after me."

"He did," Jimmy explained; "he's downstairs on the couch."

"Oh …" Sam pointed to the room's other bed where Jimmy still sat; "but that's his bed."

Jimmy nodded hesitantly; "he told me to sleep here, in case anyone came looking for me. He said I'd be safer up here sharing a room with you than downstairs sharing the living room with Tom. Dean says Tom couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag."

Sam shook his head with a wry smile; there it was - proof positive that Dean's acceptance of Jimmy was complete.

"Yeah," he sighed and flopped back down into the bed; "he's probably right, Tom's far better at mending injuries than he is at causing them."

xxxxx

"… thank you so much, that's been very helpful. Goodbye," Sam smiled into the cellphone as he disconnected the call and put it down on the table.

He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the two identical figures who were sitting across the room at Bobby's kitchen table, polishing off a mountainous pile of toast.

"Well, the post office said the advert for the clinical trials was taken down the day after you answered it," Sam called across to them; "they couldn't tell me much else except that it was booked in the name of a Doctor Smith who runs a small pharmacy in Phillipsburg."

"Yeah, that's where they sent me," Dean replied, crossing the room toward Sam; "about an hour out from the bunker, a real old-looking place. Come to think of it, I think it was called 'Smith's Pharmacy' - not at all suspicious." Dean raised an eyebrow ironically.

"Is that where they did the trial?"

Dean perched on the table next to Sam and it creaked disapprovingly under the weight of his butt. "Yeah, they took me into a back room; it looked like a doctors surgery – had all the couch and the kit and the scales and crap like that," he shrugged; "it all looked like the real deal."

Sam pulled his laptop toward him. "Well, I'm pretty sure it's not some crappy little provincial pharmacy that's creating clones. There's got to be more to it than that."

"I'd remember the place," Dean snorted; "c'mon lets go down and take a look, huh?"

Sam shook his head as the screen before him blinked into life. "Not yet," he stated flatly, "I wanna find out a bit more. And besides," he added, "if we do go down there, you're not coming."

"Why the hell not?" Dean snapped in outrage.

"Dean, your face," Sam sighed; "Jimmy's face. They'll recognise you, they might even think you're him." He shook his head defiantly; "no, if we check this out, it'll be Bobby and me – you're not going anywhere near it."

"But …"

"No buts Dean, there's no way you can show your face near these people. Stay here and keep an eye on Jimmy instead – he needs all the help he can get."

"But, Sam ..."

"Dean," Sam snapped; "you can't be involved in this job, just, no!"

They both looked across at Jimmy who sat at the table, intently studying a lump of marmalade which wobbled precariously on the end of his fork.

Dean sighed in defeat; "relegated from hunter to friggin' babysitter; this sucks!"

xxxxx

It was early afternoon when Bobby and Tom returned from an unexpectedly urgent supply run, given that it was suddenly clear that having Dean's appetite times two in the house was catastrophically bad news for Bobby's larder.

While Sam had zoned out, busy on his laptop, Dean had been equally busy teaching his clone some of life's more important skills; specifically how to drink beer without snorting bubbles up his nose, and how to play poker.

The two older men crashed through the door laden down with four bags of groceries, a crate of beer and a bag of clothes from the local Wal-mart for Jimmy.

"Ya can't keep borrowing Dean's clothes," Bobby announced as he handed the bag to the bemused clone; "and I just can't keep watching ya trailing around in Sam's gear – ya look like you've been through the freakin' hot wash and shrunk!"

Jimmy's face lit up with appreciative glee, as he sifted through the purchases, repeatedly looking up at the assembled gathering as if he couldn't believe that the unremarkable items spread out on the table before him really were all for him. Sam was quite sure he'd never seen anyone quite so made up at owning a ten-dollar hoodie.

Damn, the dust in Bobby's place was stinging his eyes …

xxxxx

It soon became clear that Tom bore something other than provisions; he was bearing news.

"I got the results back from my police pal," he looked up at Dean and Jimmy as he spoke; "it's all official. The DNA is identical. Dean, Jimmy's definitely your clone."

Dean had pretty much known that was the case but to hear it officially, straight out of the mouth of the one man who would know for sure was still a shock to the system. He dropped down into the couch, and rubbed a hand over his stubbled face; "holy crap, that's ... uh, yeah ..." He pulled in a deep breath; "I guess that makes you, kinda, my identical twin."

"That's exactly what Jimmy is," Tom replied with a quiet smile; "identical twins are clones of each other, just naturally occurring ones."

Dean's face eventually arranged itself into a shaky smile. "Welcome to the family," he mumbled, patting Jimmy on the back.

Jimmy clutched his green hoodie to his chest and beamed with a joy that suggested his life was suddenly complete.

His smile was so much like Dean's it hurt to look at.

xxxxx

It wasn't until late the following evening that Sam had some news to impart.

After over twenty-four hours working on his laptop, with barely a nap or a bite to eat; his eyes stung, his back ached and his mind whirled.

But he would have taken the backache and the double vision any day over the sickness he felt when the penny finally dropped.

xxxxx

Bobby had cooked a fine stew and the five men were sat round the dinner table as Sam began to explain what he had discovered.

"I did some digging around to find out what I could about that Smith's Pharmacy place, he began, pausing as he watched the other men wolfing their food down enthusiastically. As good as the meal was, Sam's appetite had fled, and he played absently with his food as he spoke.

"Their website was pretty basic," Sam explained; "and I get the feeling that was done deliberately to make people believe that it's some little mom and pop one man band, but in a way, that was a good thing because it was easy to get inside it and look at the coding.

"Geek," snorted Dean around a mouthful of potato.

Sam rolled his eyes and carried on regardless.

"I found references in the script to another company called Gemini Pharmaceuticals, and their website was a lot more professional – and secure. It took me over ten hours to hack into just one part of their system."

"It looks like a regular Pharmaceutical company," Sam continued; "got the usual stuff going on, you know, selling drugs and medicine and stuff, clinical testing and development, and they've even got links with the World Health Organisation." he paused, frowning in thought for a moment; "but then there was another part of their web, that I just couldn't access, like a dark page."

"A dark page?" Tom mumbled round the neck of a beer bottle.

"Yeah," Sam replied; "a dark page is a type of web page that's designed not to be traceable through normal means. It doesn't turn up on any search engines, or stuff like that. It's literally 'dark'."

"And I'm guessing that's never a good thing?" Bobby snorted.

Sam took a deep breath, and shook his head. "No, not a good thing."

Sam took a long draught on his beer and continued; "I dug around but was only able to find random bits of data throughout the script, phrases like '... DNA integrity', '... track down at all costs', '... specimen one not fit for purpose', and then something called 'Project Catalan'.

Dean wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and stifled a satisfied burp; "Catalan? That's in Spain isn't it?"

Sam nodded; "sort of, it's the name of the people and the language of the Catalonia region of Spain," he shook his head, adding; "and I started to wonder what the hell all this has to do with Spain."

Bobby glanced up at Jimmy; "does that mean anything to you?"

Jimmy shook his head uncertainly.

"Anyway, I researched it," Sam continued; "I found loads of information about the place and the people, and I also found some stuff about an organisation called the 'Catalan Company'. They were Byzantine mercenaries from the early 14th century."

A loaded pause settled across the table as four sets of concerned eyes turned to Jimmy who flushed awkwardly under the scrutiny.

"Dean, think about it," Sam warned; "why did they want a fit, strong guy to clone? Why did they ask Jimmy to kill his rabbit for a reward? Why did they think he's not fit for purpose when they found out he's friendly and gentle?"

A collective gasp went up around the table.

"Holy crap," Bobby croaked; "they're creating mercenaries."

xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 8

Matters take a sinister turn ...

xxxxx

Hazy moonlight filtered through the gap where Bobby's ragged curtains didn't quite meet in the middle and settled across Dean's content face. His belly full and his mind empty, he was sleeping soundly across the sagging width of Bobby's old couch.

The couch may have been old but it was surprisingly comfortable. Nestling back into the cosy depth of springs that had been pummelled into submission through years of use, sleep came quickly to Dean.

Together with Tom who was hunkered down in two armchairs pushed together on the other side of the lounge, their soft snores floated across the room, soothing both men into a deep and dreamless rest.

Dean sighed, unconsciously scratching his nose and burrowing his shoulders down under the fleecy grey blanket Bobby had left for him.

He relaxed. He drifted.

So it came as something of a shock when an unseen hand suddenly gripped his hair and yanked his head back with a force that suggested that Dean's personal wellbeing was not at the forefront of their mind.

Instantly awake, Dean's eyes snapped open and he looked up through the gloom into an unfamiliar face, faded almost monochrome in the moonlight. The scowl that adorned the face indicated that as well as being unfamiliar, it was unfriendly too.

"What the hell?" Dean gasped, twisting and squirming; arms flailing blindly through the darkness in an attempt to free himself from the iron grip and inflict some damage on the douchebag that was currently looming over him, one twitch of a wrist away from snapping his neck.

His frantic efforts came to naught, however, as a syringe was suddenly slammed heavily into the side of his neck.

Letting out a shocked yelp and, breathless from the burning pain of the needle, he managed to scramble clumsily to his feet, realising straight away that it was a wasted effort as his leaden limbs gave way beneath him and he flopped bonelessly back onto the couch like a beached seal.

As his head and his stomach tilted nauseously, seemingly attempting to swap places, the last thing he saw was three blurred and faintly purple Toms clambering frantically up out of their three equally blurred and purple armchair beds.

Then nothing.

xxxxx

"Hey, you," Tom yelled; squinting in horror through the darkness at Dean's unconscious form sprawled limply over the couch.

The way the two intruders spun round to face him made it clear they hadn't previously been aware of him, and the fact that one of them raised a gun toward his head suggested they weren't pleased to see him either.

Inwardly kicking himself as he stood helplessly in the middle of the room, Tom glared at the intruders. Why had he faced these two assholes without thinking of picking up a weapon? Bobby had plenty of guns and knives lying around the house. He sighed; a mixture of sleep-addled disorientation and panic will do that to you.

The figure that stood pointing a gun at him kept glancing down impatiently at the other who had crouched down beside the couch and pulled Dean's left arm out from under him. Pushing up Dean's sleeve, he was intently examining the crook of his elbow with some small probe-type object that Tom couldn't recognise.

"I can't find it," he hissed; "it's not registering."

The second man snorted irritably; "forget it; we know it's functioning – it's been working well enough to bring us to this crap-hole."

The first man continued running the small probe over the warm skin of Dean's motionless arm.

"Yeah, but it went off-line for nearly a whole day, remember?"

"Quit moaning, it's him alright, you can fix your stupid tracker when we get it back to the lab."

"What are you looking for, can I help?" Tom asked cautiously, his years of police training kicking in as he raised his hands in a gesture of contrition.

"Shut it, asshole," came the response, followed by the ominous click of his gun being cocked.

It was the last word Tom heard from the intruders before a shot rang out and the gun pointed at his head dropped limply from dead fingers, tumbling across the threadbare carpet.

The man who had been manhandling Dean leapt to his feet, gasping in shock, and dropped the small probe as a wild-haired and sleep-muzzed Sam stepped out from behind Bobby and his smoking revolver, and lunged toward him.

The intruder threw himself forward to reach his dead comrade's gun, but Tom managed to kick it aside as Sam grabbed the stranger by the throat, driving him backwards and slamming him against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing with my freakin' brother?" he snarled.

Behind him, Tom wasted no time in stepping over the body and dropping to his knees in front of Dean. Through the darkness, he saw Jimmy's horrified face staring over Bobby's shoulder and gestured to him to switch the light on.

xxxxx

The intruder sat tightly cuffed and bound to a sturdy wooden chair in the corner of the room, sporting a fine swollen cheekbone and split lip, having been subdued by Sam before being salted, soaked in holy water and enthusiastically perforated with iron, bronze and silver by Bobby.

The depressing conclusion, after all of Sam and Bobby's efforts, was that the man was 100% human.

Bobby had suspected as much; with a house charmed against every supernatural creature known to man, he was fairly confident that Chez Bobby was a no-go zone to anything magic, creepy or even vaguely paranormal. Unfortunately violent, unwelcome douchebags was another matter entirely.

"Tom, is Dean okay?" Bobby asked, schooling his voice to remain steady without taking his eyes away from the man.

A brief examination had satisfied Tom that Dean wasn't poisoned, merely anaesthetised; he would have been much happier knowing which drug had been used, but for now, he could assure Bobby and Sam that Dean appeared to be in no immediate danger.

"Yeah," he replied quietly; "he's drugged, doesn't seem to be in any distress; not yet anyway."

Bobby nodded his head in Dean's direction; "Tom, take care of Dean. Sam, take Jimmy upstairs and get him away from this asshat."

Sam hesitated, glancing wistfully across at his brother's lax form. It was a testament to his trust in Tom that he turned and gently herded Jimmy out of the room and away from the unwelcome visitor without argument.

From his chair, the intruder scowled at Bobby, then across at his dead accomplice, curling his lip in contempt as Tom strode toward him.

"What was in that syringe?" Tom demanded, pointing back at Dean.

The man huffed a humourless laugh; "I don't know," he shrugged lazily, glancing toward his dead companion; "you murdered my goddamned cousin, you expect me to tell you anything?"

Squaring his shoulders, Bobby folded his arms across his chest, his furious stare prompting the intruder to continue.

"He never told me," the man glanced over Bobby's shoulder at the dead man behind them; "we just came to take back what belongs to us."

Bobby's glare darkened; "he doesn't 'belong' to anyone. He's a human being, a free man, and he doesn't want to go back to you assholes."

Tom folded his arms across his chest; "why should he go back to a place where people care so little for him, they wanted to kill him?"

"You couldn't even tell the difference between him and his donor," Bobby added venomously.

"It's the property of our organisation and we'll do what we need to do with it," the man spat furiously; "anyway, theft of our property and," he nodded again toward the body crumpled on the floor; "murder as well? I don't think you backwater inbreds are in any position to judge me."

"I've had enough of this," snarled Bobby; "ya better start talkin' or I'm gonna start relocating kneecaps."

Waving his gun to add weight to his words, Bobby fired a shot into the floor, inches from the man's feet.

"Whoops," he grunted menacingly, "my aim's always a little off when I'm woken up in the middle of the freakin' night by some dick breakin' into the place and threatening my family."

The prisoner's lips stayed firmly sealed, but his wide eyes and the tightness of his jaw betrayed his fear.

"What were ya doin' with Dean's arm?" Bobby began; "you said something about a 'tracker', did ya plant a tracking device inside the clone on top of everything else you did to him?"

The man stared silently past Bobby into a dark corner of the room, blatantly ignoring him.

"Why did ya clone Dean without his permission?"

Silence.

"Where's your laboratory?"

Silence.

"Jimmy said ya wanted to 'eliminate him', why?"

Silence.

Bobby scowled, he glanced back at Tom, who had returned to Dean's side, then back to his prisoner.

"I know about Project Catalan and Gemini Pharmaceuticals," he warned; "you planned to clone him to create soldiers for sale."

For the first time, the stranger's face twitched in response; something that could have been amazement flashed across his guarded features.

"That's right," Bobby sneered; "not such backwater inbreds after all."

The man's face rearranged itself back into its former sullen frown.

"I've had enough of this crap," snorted Bobby and aimed a shot right into the toes of the man's left foot. It exploded into a pink mist, and the man threw his head back with a scream.

"The clone," Bobby roared; "who ya working for and why did you want to kill him?"

"Not w-workin' for anyone," the man gasped, gagging nauseously through the pain; "working for ourselves. Wars, 'specially civil wars all over the world, always a market for hired soldiers. Governments pay handsomely for them; especially from an organisation that's small enough to stay under the radar, y'know, small enough to be invisible."

"How small?" demanded Bobby.

The surly figure bit his lip and shook his head, dislodging pained tears that had rolled down his grey cheeks.

Bobby aimed the revolver at the man's right foot.

"How SMALL?" he barked.

"My Dad, he's the scientist," came the whimpered reply; "forty years of genetic research for the military. Then my cousin, he was the technician." He nodded in the direction of the crumpled body on the floor beside the couch; "then me, I do the day to day stuff."

"So, Daddy and Cuz are the brains and you're the friggin' dogsbody," Bobby growled; "is that right?"

He got a barely perceptible nod in response.

Bobby leaned down into his prisoner's personal space; "that's why you were only looking for a fit young guy's DNA. You morons thought you were going to make a natural born killer, and you ended up with the boy next door instead. Well I'm not freakin' sorry for you at all, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let ya kill the clone, just for not bein' your goddamn GI Joe."

The pained grimace on the man's face lifted for a moment as he smirked.

"You think that's all that's wrong with it?"

Bobby rocked back on his heels; behind him he could hear Tom approaching again, his curiosity piqued.

"What?" Tom asked; "what's wrong with him?"

"We don't know," the reply was ground out through clenched teeth.

"You've got ten seconds," Bobby growled.

"I don't know why you're so precious about the damn thing," the man gasped, his voice rising in anger and fear; "it's just a failed experiment; who freakin' cares?"

"Five seconds," Bobby repeated, trembling with anger.

"We needed to autopsy it; but the bastard ran away and ruined everything."

"Autopsy?" gasped Tom, "you were going to kill him, then take him apart."

"It would have speeded the process up, and we could have got the project moving again," the voice was growing weaker as the injury began to take its toll; "but whether we killed it then or not, it'll be dead within the week anyway."

Bobby and Tom both recoiled as if they were the ones who had been shot.

"Dead," Tom spluttered; "what … why?"

"I told you, asshole," the man screamed; "we don't freakin' know – that's why we needed to do an autopsy. Then we can make sure whatever went wrong with this one, won't happen next time."

"There won't be a next time," snarled Bobby as a shot rang out.

The man slumped forward in his seat.

xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 9

xxxxx

As the fog of unconsciousness receded, Dean thought briefly about opening his eyes.

His head was still giving it the full tilt-o-whirl, taking his stomach along for the ride and his neck hurt like a bitch. All things considered, full consciousness seemed like far more effort than it was worth right now, so he decided to give it a miss.

He was lying flat somewhere, on a bed maybe, or on a couch, with a thin pillow or a small cushion beneath his head. Dean didn't really know what he was lying on but given that it wasn't a bed of nails he decided to just run with it.

Gradually, he became aware of something beneath his head; something moving. It was scratching that sensitive spot right behind his right ear and it was – well – nice, very nice.

Dean unconsciously tilted his head away from whatever it was to give it more access and the scratching intensified accordingly. The groan that escaped from between his dry lips was a sound of blissful relaxation.

Damnit if his leg wasn't going to start twitching soon.

Over the next few minutes as awareness increased, curiosity got the better of him and he gingerly opened his eyes, blinking spasmodically to clear his vision.

As his eyes drifted into focus, Dean looked up straight into a startlingly familiar face.

"Jimmy?"

He grimaced as the sound that came out of his mouth sounded like he'd been gargling plutonium.

Jimmy's face stretched into a beaming smile. "Dean," he gasped; "I'm so glad you're awake."

Dean grunted in agreement and gagged as his stomach lurched nauseously.

But still there was that scratching behind his ear; boy, it was good.

Then the penny dropped.

Recoiling back from the fingers grazing behind his ear, he turned, staring open mouthed at Jimmy who abruptly pulled his hand back as if it were burned. His smile fell.

"Don't you like that?"

Dean's mouth worked silently for a moment before the power of coherent speech caught up with it; "well, yeah – but – I mean, no – I …"

It was no good, he wasn't ready for articulate conversation yet.

Jimmy looked down into his lap, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "I'm sorry. My animal – my rabbit – Sam, seemed to enjoy it when I did that to him," Jimmy mumbled; "I think it calmed him, so I thought …"

Dean's head dropped back onto the soft surface beneath him with a faint 'thunk'.

"Uh, right;" he slurred drunkenly; "yeah, thanks. I appreciate the thought – kinda - but just because it's something nice to do with a rabbit, it doesn't necessarily mean you should do it to another dude," he shrugged and a lop-sided smile crossed his ashen face; "when my brain's working, I'll explain how these things work!"

A shy smile crept back across Jimmy's face, "thank you Dean," he murmured quietly.

They both looked up as the door behind them opened and Tom strode into the room.

xxxxx

Dean suddenly became aware of what he was lying on; it was a narrow, padded couch, of the kind very often seen in doctor's surgeries. The walls of the room he was lying in were not the dust-coated mud colour which used to be burgundy that the boys had come to know in Bobby's house but a spotless, clinical white.

Dean was in Tom's clinic.

"How you feelin' Dean?" Tom began; "I heard voices so I guessed you were back with us."

"Neck hurts," Dean began wearily; "head aches, stomach feels like it's doing mach 2 and I can't think straight," he sighed; "so, yeah, awesome, thanks."

Tom smiled sympathetically and, without asking permission, picked up Dean's wrist.

"Pulse is more-or-less normal," he observed, speaking to no-one in particular, until he looked straight at Dean; "reckon you'll be okay, - well, once you've come down from your bad trip, anyway."

Dean closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he swallowed back a wave of nausea. "What happened last night?" he eventually asked.

Tom's cheerful smile faltered and he hesitated before turning to Jimmy; "hey kid, why don't you go down to the kitchen and make us all a coffee; just like I showed you, remember?"

Jimmy leapt to his feet, nodding enthusiastically as he scampered out of the room.

The fondness was clear on Tom's face as he watched the door close behind Jimmy; "that boy loves to learn," he smiled; "his mind soaks up knowledge like a freakin' sponge."

He turned to Dean and his expression was suddenly serious enough to make Dean's heart plummet into his guts, reigniting the nausea.

"It was two guys from Gemini," Tom began; "they broke into Bobby's place and saw you sleeping on the couch. Thought you were Jimmy and drugged you so that they could take you back to the lab."

Dean frowned in confusion; "how the hell did they find him? - me? - whatever?"

Tom's face flicked from serious to angry instantly; "those sly bastards planted a tracking device in his arm."

Dean's eyes widened; " tracking device?"

"Yeah," Tom nodded in response; "don't ask me on the technicalities of the damn thing, it was the size of a watch battery, works on GPS or some damn technobabble like that."

Dean blinked in confusion; "One of the guys was inspecting your arm for it because he was fretting about it malfunctioning. The idiots couldn't tell the difference between the clone and you."

Dean cocked his head quizzically; "well, this stupid tracker couldn't have been that good if it took them three days to find us."

Tom shrugged; "I heard them talking between themselves and they said it went off-line for a while. I didn't know what they meant, but when I told Bobby he guessed it might have been when you were holding Jimmy at the bunker. That place is guarded against cellphone signals, so Bobby said it probably blocked the tracker's signal too."

Dean nodded, wincing as his sore neck protested the motion; "makes sense," he agreed, labouring himself halfway up toward a sitting position on his elbows; "so we need to get our asses back to the bunker; won't they find us here otherwise?"

Tom shook his head, and pressed his hand against Dean's chest, pushing him back down into a horizontal position.

"I removed it," Tom stated bluntly; "back at Bobby's. After we'd, uh, dealt with the guys from Gemini, I checked Jimmy's arm, and there was a tiny scar, about half an inch long, just in the crook of his left elbow. I always carry a couple of shots of local in my travelling bag, you know - just in case - so I used one of them and cut the damn thing out." He paused for a moment; "didn't you notice the bandage on Jimmy's arm?"

Dean grunted a negative, resisting the urge to shake his head; "Tom, I wouldn't notice a freakin' steel band if they danced through the room right now."

Tom huffed a quiet laugh.

"You did deactivate it, didn't you?" Dean asked, his slurred speech sharpened with apprehension.

"Well, Bobby stomped on it," Tom replied; "if that's what you mean."

Dean seemed satisfied with that explanation.

xxxxx

Tom sat in thoughtful silence beside his patient for a moment, but the abrupt convulsing of Dean's throat didn't escape his attention. "I can give you something for the nausea, Dean, if it doesn't subside within an hour or so," he explained with an apologetic smile; "I'm not keen on pumping you too full of drugs given that I still don't really know what those bastards gave you."

Dean silently nodded his understanding, and his eyes thanked the man beside him. Eventually, he felt able to speak again; "where's Sam and Bobby?"

Tom took a deep breath and glanced shiftily at the door as if he was watchful for Jimmy's return. "Dean, there's something you need to know," he replied, barely above a whisper.

Dean's eyes widened in immediate concern at the tone of Tom's voice.

"What?" he prompted, trying to ignore the knot of ice-cold fear that was tightening in his belly; "Tom?"

"We got some information out of our intruders last night," Tom began; "while you were out of it."

Dean stared at Tom; "yeah ...?"

"It's Jimmy," Tom eventually stated, his voice dropping to an even quieter register.

"What about him?" Dean replied nervously.

"There's something wrong with him," Tom blurted; "that's why they wanted to take him back to the lab." Dean could see Tom's hands shaking with suppressed rage as he spoke; "they were cold, calculating bastards. They referred to him as 'it'. To them, he's just a failed experiment; a lab rat to be sliced and diced for the benefit of the next attempt."

"Well, we know what's wrong with him," Dean interjected; "they're pissed because they wanted Rambo, and they've got Bambi instead."

Tom shook his head. "No, Dean it's more than that," he sighed; "there's something physically wrong with him. The cloning failed in some way."

Dean frowned; "are you saying …?"

Tom nodded slowly; "they said he'll probably be dead within the week."

Dean gasped, "how … why?"

Tom shook his head with a dejected shrug; "we don't know; they didn't want to wait for that to happen naturally because it would hold up the project. That's why they tried to take him last night; they were going to take him back to the lab and 'put him down' so that they could autopsy him to glean more information."

Tom paused for a moment, his brown eyes locked onto Dean's shocked gape; "I know the way medicine works, though," he added; "I'm guessing they have some idea, even if they don't know for sure. They just chose not to share it last night."

"Well, where are the sonsofbitches?" Dean snapped, struggling to upright himself again; "we need to get them talking."

"Not much chance of that," shrugged Tom; "they're probably under Bobby's floorboards by now."

Dean's lips quirked in approval.

"Anyway, so that's where Sam and Bobby are," Tom explained; "they've gone to find the lab and see if they can get some answers there."

Dean's jaw dropped; "they've gone where? Jesus Tom, I need to be there with them." He flung a leg over the side of the couch and managed to rock himself up into a hunched sitting position, trying to convince himself that the spinning room and churning nausea that resulted from the action would pass momentarily.

It didn't.

Tom stood and firmly pressed Dean back down into the couch. "What you need to do, Dean, is rest," his stentorian 'I'm a friggin' Doctor and I know best' voice leaving Dean in absolutely no doubt about who was in charge here. "You're still groggy; who knows what lingering effects that crap they pumped into you will be?"

"No offence Dean," he added, far more gently; "but you'll be a liability if you follow them there in this state. They're better off knowing that you're back here safe and recovering."

Dean scowled angrily at the Doctor; he wanted to rage and argue and tell Tom he was talking crap. But the rage didn't come because he grudgingly knew that Tom was totally right.

"That's why we decided that you, me and Jimmy should come back here rather than to the bunker," Tom explained; "I can keep an eye on you, and if there's anything I can do for Jimmy, I've got the equipment to do it here. And I'm going to do everything I possibly can – I ain't losing that boy, not without one hell of a fight."

xxxxx

Dean huffed out a despondent sigh; "I gotta hand it to him, he's taking it real well," he observed.

Tom stiffened at Dean's words and glanced down at the floor. Gnawing his lip nervously, he traced a crack in the linoleum with the toe of his shoe.

"Tom," Dean prompted suspiciously; "he does know, right?"

"I don't want to scare him," Tom mumbled; "he wasn't around when it all went down yesterday, Sam had taken him upstairs to keep him safe."

Tom genuinely looked like he might break down before he fortified himself and continued; "I know a doctor isn't supposed to get emotionally involved with his patients but, what can I say, Dean, that ship's sailed, the deed is done; it's like he's my own goddamn child."

"He's had such a crappy start," Tom explained shakily; "and he's so full of excitement and joy with the life we're giving him. I showed him how to make coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich this morning and he was freakin' elated; you'd think I'd imparted the secrets of the entire damn universe to him, not just how to make a stupid breakfast." Tom paused to compose himself before continuing; "I know I'm a sap, but I want to protect him. I can't bear the thought of scaring that joy out of him. If the worst happens, he'll die never knowing he was in danger; he won't have to sour what life he's got left with worry, but I'm hoping that when Bobby and Sam get hold of the research there'll be something there that I can work with; and then if I do need to tell him what's going on, I can give him some hope."

xxxxx

Tom abruptly fell silent and sat back, wiping his eyes, as the door opened with a soft squeak, and Jimmy walked carefully into the room carrying a tray containing three mugs of coffee.

Dean rolled over sideways and looked across at Jimmy, immediately noticing the narrow bandage wrapped neatly around his left elbow. He forced an exaggerated smile onto his face, fighting the rising nausea induced by the heavy aroma of coffee.

But his smile faded when he noted the thin trickle of blood running down from Jimmy's nose and pooling on his upper lip.

"Tom," Jimmy whispered as he placed the tray on the table beside Dean's couch with shaking hands; "I don't feel well."

xxxxx

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 10

A race against time begins ...

xxxxx

The dead guys' cellphones had proved quite useful. From them, Sam and Bobby had gleaned a good amount of information, including the exact whereabouts of Smith's Pharmacy, in the small town of Phillipsburg. They also found its opening hours and, most importantly, a phone number for the man they wanted to speak to; Doctor Smith.

They considered calling him but then changed their minds; deciding that a personal visit would have far more impact. An unannounced personal visit, no less.

The two men made the drive over to Phillipsburg without incident, and it was early afternoon by the time Sam pulled the Impala into a cosy little parking lot behind a ramshackle parade of shops.

There, on the eastern end of the parade was a particularly decrepit store. Its sun-faded awning read 'SMIT 'S, giving Bobby and Sam enough to be able to guess that this was the place they were looking for.

"It's a goddamn dump," mumbled Sam, adjusting his tie as he strode alongside Bobby.

Bobby shrugged; "Dean mentioned that it looked old; maybe Smith wants to cultivate this image of the harmless little old local pharmacist." He paused in silent thought for a moment; "plus, that cloning lab can't be cheap to set up and run." Bobby glanced across at Sam; "what d'y bet he's ploughing all the funds into that facility?"

"Not for much longer," grunted Sam as they pushed the flaking wood-framed door open.

xxxxx

If they were expecting to find a man old enough to be the father of one of the goons who paid them a visit the previous evening, they were more than a little surprised to find a young woman behind the counter, vacantly chewing gum as she scanned the pages of a magazine with an expression of measured tedium.

Casting a brief glance at each other, they stepped forward to close the distance between themselves and the counter, opening their FBI badges as they did so.

"Hi," the young woman smiled brightly.

"Hello there," Bobby smiled in response; "Agents Richards and Moon, FBI, we're looking for a Doctor Smith."

The woman's eyes widened in shock; "oh, I'm sorry he's not here at the moment; what's wrong?"

"Uh, nothing to worry about," Sam interjected; "we just need to speak to him about a young man who we believe came in here for a clinical trial a few weeks ago."

"Oh," the young woman's eyes glimmered with excitement at the thought of some juicy gossip; "yes, I remember him, he was real cute," she paused briefly, her mind processing the agents' request; "is there a problem?"

"Not at all," replied Sam pleasantly; "it's just that this man is wanted in connection with a few reported felonies around the county and we'd just like to speak to Doctor Smith, to further our investigation."

"Oh," her face fell slightly; "what a shame – he was very charming; I processed his urine sample. He didn't seem the type to get into trouble."

Sam suppressed a snigger, he could almost hear Bobby rolling his eyes behind him. It took a special kind of man to charm the woman who's dipping a litmus stick in a jar of his pee.

"I'm sorry agents, like I said, Doctor Smith isn't working here at the moment," she sighed; "he's got some family – uh – stuff, going on."

Bobby and Sam swapped glances; "family stuff?" Bobby asked as casually as he could manage.

"Yes," she responded, leaning over the counter toward them; "apparently his son and his nephew went camping - or something - and although he was expecting them back yesterday, they haven't come back or got in touch yet." Her voice dropped to a whisper, revelling in the drama of the situation; "isn't that scary?"

Sam cleared his throat, and schooled his face into a sympathetic frown. "Yes, shame, uh, real shame."

He paused for a length of time that he deemed to be respectful before continuing; "would you know where the results of that man's trial are filed?"

She shook her head glumly, "I'm sorry, I don't really get very involved in that side of Doctor Smith's work, I only work here three days a week while I'm doing my pharmacology degree."

"Has he told you anything that you think might be useful to us?"

She popped a pink bubble as she thought, eventually shaking her head; "Doctor Smith is a very private man," he shrugged apologetically; "he's a bit of a cold fish, really, doesn't talk much at all."

Bobby suppressed a disappointed sigh; "well, thank you miss; here's my card, call me if you think of anything."

Sam nodded a silent goodbye and turned abruptly on his heel alongside Bobby when a voice stopped them.

"Wait."

They turned back.

"I don't know how relevant it is, but when he does talk, Doctor Smith has mentioned a place – a town I think – called Kensington. He seems to spend a lot of time there, especially since the trial. Maybe he's got an apartment or some kind of office there, the trial information could be there I guess.

"Thank you," Sam replied enthusiastically; "that's very helpful."

"I don't suppose you'd have an address," Bobby prompted.

She shook her head; "sorry!"

They thanked her effusively and strode out of the store, with a renewed sense of purpose.

"Bobby, when I went to the police station to get Dean, uh, Jimmy, they said they'd picked him up in a diner in Kensington.

Bobby nodded; "yeah?"

"When you think Jimmy ran from the lab to the diner, he couldn't have gone too far.

"So, our friend Smith's secret hidey-hole in Kensington has gotta be the lab," Bobby grinned.

Sam nodded, "no doubt about it."

Both men climbed into the Impala and Sam floored the accelerator.

xxxxx

His nausea and disorientation a sudden memory, Dean half-rolled half-fell off the couch as Jimmy's knees gave way beneath him, and he crumpled into Tom's arms.

Clambering to unco-ordinated feet, Dean watched in helpless horror as Tom gripped Jimmy's barely-conscious form under the arms, holding him at a level where he could look directly into his face.

"Hey son, c'mon, it's okay, everything's gonna be alright" Tom muttered helplessly, as much to reassure himself as anyone else.

Between them, Dean and Tom lifted Jimmy up onto the couch, recently vacated by Dean, and gently laid him out flat. Clucking around measuring Jimmy's pulse, temperature and anything else he could think of, Tom desperately looked for clues, some idea – any idea - of what might be wrong. As he worked, Dean spread a blanket he had found folded in the corner over the shivering clone.

"Tom, Dean ..." Jimmy whimpered from between lips that didn't seem to know how to move; "wha's happ'nin?"

"Just rest, don't speak; let us do the worrying." The crack in Tom's voice belied the frantic concern that was lurking behind the words.

"Tom's right," Dean added, giving Jimmy's shoulder a reassuring squeeze; "nothing bad's gonna happen to you while we're around." He looked up at Tom for encouragement; "ain't that right Tom?"

Tom swallowed hard, trying to force a nod as he looked at the pure, unwavering trust swimming in Jimmy's frightened eyes.

The words had tumbled out of Dean's mouth with the best intentions but without thought, and now Tom had to fiind a way to make those words into truth.

Dean couldn't deny that the image of his double lying there looking so frail and colourless was disturbing in the extreme, and he found himself reaching across to pull a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall and gently wiping the trickle of blood from Jimmy's face, just to distract himself.

"Dammit," hissed Tom; untangling his stethoscope with shaking fingers; "I hoped Sam and Bobby would be back before anything like this happened. I've got nothing to go on," he whispered under his breath, glancing desperately at Dean; "no freakin' idea."

Jimmy blinked; his eyes, stripped of their usual excited sparkle, darted haphazardly between the two men standing over him.

"Don' send me back there …" he whispered; "please."

"No," Dean replied sternly, looking deep into the fading green eyes, "you'll never go back there, Jimmy, do you understand me? All four of us, Tom, me, and Sam and Bobby, we'd die before we let those bastards anywhere near you."

A ghost of a smile crossed Jimmy's pallid face; "than' you." He let out a shuddering breath as his eyes closed permanently and his head lolled limply to one side.

Tom shook his head frantically, and glanced at Dean, their faces frozen into matching masks of heartbreak as his shaking hand guided the stethoscope under Jimmy's blue tee.

"No, no, NO!" Tom cried; "his breathing, it's so shallow, his heartbeat, his pulse; it's all growing weaker, it's like his whole body's shutting down."

He scraped a despairing hand over the thinning hair at his crown; "Dean, I don't know what to …"

He paused momentarily, brow deeply furrowed in thought as he glanced imperceptibly across at Dean, then down to the unconscious figure between them.

"What?" Dean snapped.

Tom released the breath he was holding, and shook his head, seemingly gathering his thoughts. "Uh, I can – um, yeah - can give him an adrenaline shot, it might help."

Dean reached across and grabbed the doctor's hand. "Tom," he barked, "you had something on your mind a moment ago; what was it?"

"No," Tom shook his head, aiming for sincere honesty and failing miserably; "it-it was nothing."

"DAMMIT TOM!" Dean's eyes, manic with grief, pleaded with the older man. "You're a goddamn crappy liar. We haven't got time for this."

"It was just - just something I read about," Tom sighed; "an old druidic healing incantation. I've never seen it used, don't know anyone who has."

The two men paused, looking down at Jimmy's still body, his chest barely flickering with the feeble breaths that were barely keeping him alive; his parchment-white face marred by another thin trickle of blood.

"Okay," Dean snapped; "talk to me."

Tom shook his head; "no Dean, it doesn't matter; it's too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Dean spat; "does it matter? He can't be much worse off than he is now. If there's even a small chance it could work …"

"It's not him I'd be worried about, Dean," Tom interrupted sharply.

"The one who would be in danger – is you."

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 11

Our four heroes face different challenges.

xxxxx

Sam and Bobby stood staring through a broken-down fence partly surrounding the abandoned building to which their enquiries within the small and very smart town of Kensington had led them.

It wasn't anything special; standing there on the outskirts of town, alongside a parade of new trading units which were butted up alongside its crumbling exterior. It had once been the headquarters of the Kensington and County Gazette before the newspaper had gone out of business some ten years previously.

The building was currently the focus of much disquiet in the town, and that was how Sam and Bobby's casual enquiries had led them to this place.

An eyesore, the proud people of Kensington said; a blot on the landscape. An insult to their perfectly manicured lawns and colour co-ordinated windchimes.

The Manager of the nearby Post Office, 'Marjorie', with her blue rinse and startlingly garish lipstick that reminded Sam of that pink stuff the doctor gives you when your burger's disagreed with you, had explained huffily to the well-dressed strangers - visiting town planners looking for a suitable location for new civic offices - that there had been much interest when an unknown organisation from out of town had purchased the site sometime over a year ago.

No-one in the town knew who it was or what they did, and the organisation itself kept its own counsel; no mean feat in a small town.

The realtors gave nothing away, having been silenced by legal confidentiality contracts; but townsfolk were, at first, prepared to give the new occupants the benefit of the doubt despite rumours abounding of the need for secrecy being a cover for the manufacture of biological weapons, or the search for extra-terrestrial intelligence.

The population of Kensington had all hoped that whoever had purchased the plot would herald a new era for the ramshackle site; that it would be smartened up, or better still, demolished and replaced with something far more respectable, in keeping with such a classy neighbourhood. However, despite the mysterious vanloads of equipment being taken out and delivered in the early days of it's current occupancy, here it was a year later, still as dilapidated as the day upon which it had been purchased.

Marjorie was clearly far more concerned about her neighbours' lack of pride in their premises than their rumoured capability of starting a cholera epidemic.

xxxxx

Sam and Bobby didn't share Marjorie's concern about cosmetic matters at all; they were far more interested in structural matters.

The building had been both office and printing plant for the newspaper which, in its seventies and eighties heyday, had boasted a circulation well into six figures.

The office building was not huge. It stood just two storeys high on a footprint not much bigger than the average family home, but both men knew that what they could see would be only the tip if the proverbial iceberg. Old-style mechanical newspaper printing presses were massive, loud, dirty, thunderous and very, very heavy.

Which is why they were nearly always located in basements - very large basements.

That basement would be Sam and Bobby's next stop.

xxxxx

"How will this be dangerous for me?" Dean asked curiously.

"This incantation is supposed to work by healing a gravely sick or injured person by infusing them with the life force of a healthy person," Tom explained rapidly, his eyes flicking nervously across to Jimmy's motionless body with virtually every word he spoke; "but here's the catch, it'll only work between a close blood tie – between siblings or between parent and child."

Dean shrugged; "well me an' Jimmy, we're kinda brothers."

"Yes, but not in the strict sense of the word," Tom replied; "I don't know if it'd work under these circumstances."

"You said yourself, we're identical twins," Dean snapped; "we've gotta try it, Tom, we'll never know otherwise."

"Dean, this is serious stuff," Tom countered, "it was only ever used, and even then very rarely, on the most exalted and highest-ranking members of a tribe because very often, the strain of the healing would kill the other person, the brother or son or whatever, who was used as the source of life; it simply drained the life out of them. That's why it was rarely used - what's the point in saving a king by killing his son? You've screwed the line of succession either way."

"But they don't always die?" Dean prompted impatiently.

Tom shrugged; "I guess not – I don't know. I only read about this in a journal that was bequeathed to me by a hunter years ago. Even he wasn't writing from first-hand experience."

Dean nodded. "We'll just have to take the chance; look at him," he pointed to Jimmy; "we can't - I can't - just stand here with my thumbs up my ass and let him die".

Both men turned to look down at Jimmy's still form. Grey-faced and inert, Jimmy was the very image of life lost, only the barely-perceptible, laboured rise and fall of his chest indicated otherwise.

"Dean, I really don't like this," Tom groaned, pulling in a deep breath as he spoke.

"So you keep saying," Dean replied flatly; "tell me what I need to do."

"have you any idea what Sam and Bobby will do to me if this goes to crap?" Tom snorted.

Dean shot the older man a wry smile; "they know what a reckless asshole I am, they won't blame you."

Tom absently brushed the back of a hand over Jimmy's forehead, wincing at how cold it already felt; "we need to get that journal," he observed with a deep sigh after what seemed like forever; "go to my office, it's on the bookshelf, a really old black leather book with a devils trap embossed on the spine; I'll stay here with Jimmy."

Dean nodded smartly and disappeared through the open door before Tom had a chance to change his mind.

xxxxx

Dropping heavily into the chair beside the couch, Tom heard Dean's footsteps receding urgently up the stairs. He rested a hand on Jimmy's shoulder, a gentle squeeze as a gesture of unspoken comfort, and was disappointed but not surprised when there was no response. His heart clenched when he thought about this poor kid. So lost, so confused; without a purpose or a place in the world, trying so hard to understand where he fit in, trying so desperately to please those around him.

He couldn't condone what those bastards had done to Dean, nor could he even begin to forgive the way they'd treated Jimmy; but a small part of him, his inner scientist, had to hand it to them; they had truly created a marvel.

The more he had come to know Jimmy, the more he knew that when he had initially described Jimmy as Dean in his purest form, he was completely right. Jimmy was Dean as he would have been before the life he was forced to lead hardened him; trusting, inquisitive, thoughtful and compassionate. All those close to Dean knew that he possessed all those qualities and more besides, but the hunters' life had hidden them deep, crushing them under a brusque and watchful shell of steel.

But aside from that, they had also somehow managed to imbue Jimmy with basic knowledge and some life skills. He knew how to dress and how to feed himself. He could even talk, and not just talk, but converse - to a degree at least.

At one point, Tom had even thought he could read when he mentioned knowing his own 'name' and that of his next of kin, but he'd later confided in Tom that he heard Sam's name being mentioned on the first morning when they were discussing his file over him and around him but never, Tom noted, with him.

Jimmy was a miracle, a wonderful, beautiful miracle; arising, as do many miracles, out of the worst of circumstances.

As Tom looked down into Jimmy's slack, lifeless face, he knew that he was screwed. There was nothing he wouldn't do to save him. He just wished with every atom of his being that he didn't have to risk Dean's life to do so.

xxxxx

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 12

xxxxx

Getting through what was left of the fence was no challenge for Sam and Bobby; a stiff breeze could have blown it down, and they later realised that large parts of it were missing on one side of the building anyway.

As they picked their way across the crumbling asphalt of the deserted parking lot, they could see flat skylights dotting the ground around them, which pretty much confirmed their suspicions that the larger part of this building existed underground.

Sharing a glance as they reached the locked door to the office building they knocked and waited expectantly for a moment. Neither of them were bowled over with shock when no answer was forthcoming.

A second, louder knock gleaned no more success, and within a moment, Sam found himself keeping watch on the doorstep while Bobby coaxed his aging knees down into a position from which he could pick the lock.

After a few moments huffing and cussing, Sam heard the telltale click of the lock giving way under Bobby's expert fingers. He wasn't sure if the pained squeak that he heard came from the slowly opening door, or Bobby's straightening knees, but either way his musings halted in their tracks as, along with Bobby, he stepped into the building's gloomy interior.

This truly was the building that time forgot.

It looked like the office had barely been touched since the day the newspaper closed. Dust-coated desks stood like islands on a sun-bleached carpet; their surfaces laden with obsolete and comically massive computer equipment. A faint gauze of cobwebs fluttered over noticeboards covered with yellowing memos typed and dated back in the nineties; their print faded to a faint, shadowy grey.

Sam's eyes widened in awe, he almost regretted they were on a job; he would have given his eye teeth to explore this place – and they hadn't even made it to the basement yet.

xxxxx

It was only moments before Dean was crashing back into the room with the journal Tom had requested.

"This the one?" he asked .

Tom nodded; "that's it," he replied, reaching for the book.

"Dean, you're really sure about this?"

"Yes," Dean snorted; "c'mon Tom, less fretting more reading."

Dean laid a hand over Jimmy's chest, trying to reassure himself that the stricken man was still alive; nervously sucking in a sharp breath at how cold and still he was.

"Even if I can't heal him," he muttered absently, "perhaps I can just buy him time until Sam and Bobby get back." He glanced up hopefully at Tom but received no response from the Doctor who was immersed in the journal; "kinda like a supernatural life support?"

Dean tried for a cheesy grin, but it was clear Tom wasn't in the mood for jokes.

"Dean …" Tom sighed.

"Do it," Dean interrupted, the hint of steel in his voice brooking no argument.

Tom dropped heavily into a chair at the side of the room and scraped a hand over his face.

xxxxx

It was Bobby that found the door to the basement, while Sam was distracted by an antique telex machine. It was protected by a keypad entry system, seemingly the only piece of modern technology in this whole place, and although it held the secret of one out of a hundred trillion possible combinations, it was no match for Bobby's trusty screwdriver, Sam's IQ and two combined lifetimes' experience of breaking and entering.

They drew their guns as they cautiously made their way down the unlit staircase, and eventually found their way into a large, dim space.

Sam fumbled behind him for a moment, his flashlight scanning a plain wall and eventually illuminating a light switch. He flicked the switch and the two men stood watching as banks of fluorescent lights sputtered into life.

Blinking wetly in the stark light, they glanced around, rapidly trying to find their bearings in the massive room which was clearly a laboratory of some kind. It didn't take long for their eyes to fix on something lying in an empty corner.

Bobby groaned, "oh shit."

xxxxx

"Okay," Tom sighed; "I've got the incantation here, it's gaelic and it translates as:

_Pass upon this child of my blood the gift of my life, _

_Let the tree of life burst into bud within him,_

_Let the tree of my life lay bare."_

He looked up at Dean as he finished reading; "and there's a sigil," he added, turning the book to face Dean. He pointed to the diagram below the scrawled text he had just read. "Apparently I need to paint this over your heart in his blood, and over his heart in your blood."

Dean nodded and, without hesitating, pulled off his T shirt, dropping it on the floor behind him as he stepped across to help Tom lift Jimmy's lax shoulders and work his shirt off.

"Pull the spare couch from under the window over here so that you're lying right next to Jimmy," Tom directed as he readied his kit.

Doing as he was bidden, Dean lifted a pile of junk and papers off of the couch and wheeled it across the room, parking it next to the couch where Jimmy lay.

Without being directed, he hopped up onto the padded surface, and settled down flat on his back, looking over his shoulder and grimaced to see Tom looming over him with what he was quite sure an unnecessarily large syringe in his gloved hands

"Dean, you're absolutely sure …"

"Tom," Dean snapped; "I swear if you ask me that one more time I'm gonna pop you one."

Smiling inwardly, Tom nodded, recognising the gratitude behind the warning.

"Right," he sighed, fortifying himself for the task ahead; "gonna draw the blood now, okay?"

Dean swallowed queasily and nodded, closing his eyes and biting his lip as he reflected that he'd like to tell Tom exactly where he could stick his needle.

Working quickly and efficiently, it was barely a moment before Tom had completed his task, swabbing cool alcohol over the resulting pinprick in Dean's arm and moved on, expertly drawing a syringe full of blood from Jimmy, sympathetically muttering a quiet apology as he did so.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice shaking with nerves; "here goes."

Tipping the blood into two small bowls, Tom carried one over to the couch containing Jimmy; "okay, son, you first," he 'announced, threading shaking fingers through his casualty's limp fringe.

From his couch, Dean watched in fascination as Tom painted the sigil across the width of Jimmy's chest with his fingertip, concentrating intently as he fashioned three clockwise spirals arranged in a downward pointing triangle in Dean's blood.

By the time Tom put the bowl down he looked exhausted.

"Now you Dean," he murmured, picking up the second bowl.

Dean nodded, and lay back, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes.

He felt Tom's gloved fingertip gliding across his bare skin, spreading with it the warmth of Jimmy's freshly drawn blood, and swallowed queasily.

"These spirals have to be drawn anti-clockwise," Tom stated almost absent-mindedly as he worked, sensing Dean's discomfort at the situation; a lifetime of doctor's training kicking in to distract his patient. "You're giving life, but Jimmy's receiving it."

He cmpleted his work quickly and without fuss or drama.

"All done, Dean;" Tom huffed; "now, I gotta read the incantation. Then I guess, we just wait; like I said, there's no guarantee this'll work."

Dean nodded without opening his eyes; he had no desire to see Jimmy's blood scrawled across his chest. "Gotta try," he murmured.

He heard the hollow clink as Tom placed the bowl back down on the table, and a brief rustle as he picked up the journal.

"Okay, uh, right," Tom stammered, clearing his throat; "this might sound pretty bad, I've never read Gaelic before. Here goes …"

_"Pas ar an leanbh de mo chuid fola an bronntanas do mo shaol  
Lig an crann na beatha pléasctha i bud laistigh dó  
Lig an crann de mo shaol a leagan lo"_

Tom quietly closed the journal and placed it on the table.

Then he sat back and waited.

xxxxx

In the corner of the starkly-lit room lay a slumped body, the body of a middle-aged man. Smith, both men guessed.

The pistol laying half in and half out of his lifeless grip and the splash of blood across the wall behind his head suggested that Doc Smith was no longer going to be of any help to their enquiries.

As they crossed the room, the first thing that caught their attention apart, of course, from the dead dude in the corner, was a cellphone lying on the table, a voicemail message symbol flashing on its screen.

Sam picked it up and listened to the message, recognising the voice of a familiar young woman as soon as she began to speak;

"_Hello, Doctor Smith,__ I don't know what's happening, but there were two guys from the FBI here in the store a few minutes ago. They were asking about that guy who came in for the clinical trial last month. Apparently he's, like, a criminal or something. Sorry to bother you Sir, I don't know how important this is, but I thought you ought to know."_

Sam clicked the phone off and dropped it on the table; "he got that message and put two and two together," he sighed.

"Yeah, and made 'deep shit'," added Bobby; "he knew the game was up."

"DAMNIT!" roared Sam, kicking out in frustration at a sheet-covered box under the desk.

A hollow metallic clang echoed around the tiled room as he did so, but it was another sound entirely that caught their attention.

A scuffle.

xxxxx

tbc


End file.
